


That's a Weird Ass Dog

by therecognitionscene



Category: Long Exposure (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, also some abuse/violence in the middle, mild drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10431600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therecognitionscene/pseuds/therecognitionscene
Summary: The tale of an unidentified mammal and the boy who loves him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Long Exposure and all its characters and content belongs solely to smokeplanet.
> 
> this is my own version of a Bud Mueller origin story. that beautiful little creature owns my heart, as does his trash dad. once again, I'm garbage and don't proofread my writing before I post it. pls forgive any mistakes/sucky bits. i'll edit one day. hopefully.

Everyone knows that the woods are the best place to get high. 

That's why Mitch spends so many of his afternoons hidden among the trees, sitting on the damp forest floor with a handful of pre-rolled joints he spends hours working his way through. There's something almost therapeutic about it, like he's communing with nature or some shit like that, breathing in the earthy air and listening to the bountiful sounds of life that surround him. 

If nothing else it provides him a modicum of solitude, a respite from the noise of the shitty neighborhood he and his mother recently moved to and the utter fucking  _ bullshit _ of his life. Out in the woods, with his mind growing pleasantly hazy and his eyes streaking through with red, he can pretend that nothing else exists: not his asshole stepdad, not the sad hollowness that's been slowly growing in his mom’s eyes, not the terror that grips him some nights and keeps him awake for hours as the bruises littering his body throb and ache.

Just barely fifteen years old and he’s already looking for a means of escape,  _ any  _ means of escape, from…  _ everything _ .

Most of the time his smoke sessions go undisturbed. Birds flit around his head and every once in awhile a squirrel runs by his feet, but they pay him no mind. Hikers are few and far between; no one ventures this far off the trails, really, except for him. He doesn’t have to deal with anyone or anything, and that’s just how he likes it.

Except for this one day.

It’s been drizzling on and off ever since the sun had come up, but a few raindrops aren’t enough to stop Mitch from following his daily routine. He dons a hoodie and slips out of the house as soon as he gets a chance, the echoes of his stepdad’s drunken yelling fading the further he walks into the woods. Four in the afternoon and the man’s already piss-drunk; what a fucking waste of space. At least his mom is out for the evening so she won’t have to deal with him; better for her to get home and find him passed out in his armchair, even if she feels lonelier than ever looking at his prone form. Better than thrown punches and split skin.

Mitch finds his usual spot-- a soft patch of moss kept dry beneath the trunk of a halved tree--and sets up shop. He burns through two joints quickly, to take the edge off, but savors the third, seeing how long he can hold the smoke in his throat until he either coughs it out or releases it in a cloudy exhale. He’s trying to figure out the mechanics of smoke rings--Javier had been able to do them, back when they’d hung out everyday after school in Sellwood--and he wants to be able to impress the clown-faced fucker, if he ever sees him again. 

Thinking about his friends--the only friends he’s ever really had, Javier and Scratch and Cliff--makes something inside his chest constrict painfully, and it’s not a feeling he likes. He takes a deep drag from his joint, angry at how  _ stupid _ emotions are, and ends up inhaling way too much. He dissolves into hacking coughs that echo through the trees around him, and it’s a good few minutes before he’s able to get his breathing back under control.

That’s when he hears it, loud now in the absence of his choking coughs: a soft, plaintive crying, sort of like the bleating of a goat, but not quite so ululating or grating on the ears. Mitch scrubs at his watering eyes with dirty knuckles and looks around, squinting at the dewy fronds and moss-covered logs around him. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere close by, that little call for help. At least, Mitch thinks it sounds like a call for help; he’s never really heard anything quite like it.

He pushes himself onto his feet-- and fuck, he is  _ high _ \-- before pulling his hood up over his head and stepping out from his makeshift shelter. It’s drizzling, droplets of rain falling from the branches of the trees intermittently to splash down against the forest’s underbrush; he scowls up at the cloudy sky and gets a raindrop in the eye for his troubles.

“Stupid goddamn rain,” he mutters to himself as he stumbles around, following the sound to its source. “Stupid goddamn animal. Prolly a dumb ol’ rabbit or something. Man, I  _ hate _ rabbits. Smug lil’ bastards. If’s a rabbit m’gonna  _ laugh _ at it. Yeah…”

As it turns out, it’s not a rabbit that Mitch finds at the end of the proverbial rainbow. It’s…

Well, it’s…

“The fuck  _ is _ that?”

Nestled down at the base of a boulder, with a little hind foot caught between two rocks that must have shifted and fallen on top of it, is… A porcupine? No. A racoon. Wait, no, not a raccoon. Is it a possum? What do possums even look like? Mitch crouches down and stares hard at the animal, which grows quiet and stares right back at him with big, dark eyes. “The hell even  _ are _ you?” He asks out loud, but the animal of unknown species doesn’t offer up a reply. It simply sits there and looks at Mitch expectantly. He frowns; saving animals isn’t really his thing, but… He can’t just leave the little guy--girl?--trapped there, now can he? As if in response to his thoughts, the animal lets out a chirp and looks down at its trapped foot.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he grumbles, shuffling forward through the dead leaves and extending his hands out slowly towards the creature. It doesn’t move to bite him, nor does it shy away from his presence. It just blinks up at him, the picture of patience, as Mitch fumbles with the rocks, his big clumsy hands made all the less dexterous by his high. They’re slick and wet, making it hard to get a good grip on them; heavy, too, almost too heavy for Mitch to lift. After a moment of struggling he swears, scowling down at the animal. “Stupid fuckin’ thing. Who even gets their foot caught like that, huh? Dumb fucks, that’s who.” The creature lets out a noise, like it’s arguing with him, and Mitch rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever, bud, I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it. I’m not the dumbass stuck under a rock. Here, lemme try…”

He works his hands underneath the animal’s front legs, getting a good grip on its soft side while avoiding the sharp looking quills on top. The little beast lets out an indignant squeak that Mitch ignores; he rocks his weight back onto his heels, gives an almighty tug, and uses way too much strength. He pulls the animal free and sends himself flying backwards onto his ass, then his back as the creature collides with his chest. He lands with an ‘oof’ and stares, dazedly, up at the pine trees above him before the view gets blocked out by a waggling little snout. 

“Arrrrggggghhh, gerroffame!” He growls, his face scrunching up as a soft tongue pokes out and starts licking at his cheeks. The animal chirrups and digs its claws into Mitch’s shirt as he sits up, hanging there as the teen glares down at it with a cocked eyebrow. “Well? Go on then, dipshit. You’re not stuck anymore!” He pries it free of his hoodie and plops it onto the ground; the animal raises itself onto its feet, shifting its weight back and forth as it tests out its leg, and--when all seems well--lets out a series of snuffling coos. “Yeah, ok, whatever,” Mitch grumbles, standing and wiping the dirt and dead leaves off of his ass. “Ye’re lucky I was here, stupid little idiot. Don’t dick around anymore or you might get yourself killed.”

The animal plunks its hindquarters down and looks up at Mitch with its dark eyes; Mitch can’t stop a smile from spreading across his face, lopsided and jagged. “You’re kinda like a dog, y’know that? A weird, spiky dog…. Ok, well, uh…  _ stay _ . Here. You stay here, and I’m gonna go. So... Bye, weird dog. Good luck survivin’ and shit.” 

With that he turns on his heel and heads back the way he’d come, glancing over his shoulder just once to see the little beast still sitting by the rocks, staring quizzically after him. 

The sky has darkened significantly by the time Mitch arrives back at his spot, a fresh mass of thick, grey clouds rolling in to blot out the watery grey daylight; it looks like the rain is about to get a lot heavier, and quickly, too. Mitch sighs; he still has two joints he wanted to smoke, but he’ll just have to save those for another day. He makes quick work gathering up his belongings and slings his small beat-up backpack over one shoulder before hoofing it out of the woods, back towards his mom’s home and the safety of a roof. 

He makes it home just in time, closing the front door right as the sky opens up and lets loose a torrential downpour. The wind starts to gain strength, rattling the windows of their shitty little house, but Mitch doesn't mind all that much. He's always sort of liked storms. They're wild, and can be dangerous, but they don't always mean to be destructive. Not always. Sometimes it just… happens. 

He toes off his soggy shoes and locks his gaze on the stairwell in front of him. It's not far, maybe only fifteen feet away, but he has to walk past the living room door to get to it. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it as he begins to walk--very carefully--across the wooden floor towards the stairs. Easy now, almost there, just a little bit more, and--

“Mueller.”

Fuck.

“Yeah?” He shoots back, already on the defensive. His stepfather peers around the doorframe from the comfort of his shitty old armchair, fixing Mitch with a glare that's cold and uncaring; not even the whiskey can dull this man’s edges, not fully. 

“Where the fuck were you? The school called; said you missed classes again today. What, you really like being a royal fuckup that much?”

Mitch can feel his blood starting to boil as it pumps hard and fast through his veins. His hands ball into tight fists by his sides, his knuckles turning a bluish white, but he keeps his rage from bubbling over, swallows down the venomous hate he wants to spew at this man. “Didn't feel well,” he pushes out through gritted teeth. “Went to get… medicine.”

His stepdad lets out a derisive snort. “Ha, medicine. Sure. Probably out begging for drugs all day like your goddamn whore mom. Useless, the both’a’ya.”

Mitch is practically vibrating with rage by this point, a fact that doesn't go unnoticed by the older man. The bastard smiles, sick and cruel.

“Wha’s the matter, Mitchy-boy? Don't like me saying that about your mom? Why don't you be a man and come do somethin’ about it?”

Mitch wants to beat this fucker’s face in until there's nothing left but bloody pulp. He doesn't, though. His mom would be upset with him if he fought with his stepdad. She wants them to get along. And Mitch? He just wants her to be happy. 

“I'm going to bed,” he responds, his voice tight and strained; he turns back towards the stairs, taking his eyes off of his stepdad. 

Big mistake. 

“Don't you fuckin’ walk away from me, you ungrateful little shit!” 

For a drunk man, he sure can move fast; he's on his feet and grabbing Mitch before the teenager can react, dragging him down to the ground hard. “You're gonna learn some goddamn respect, boy,” his stepdad hisses as he pins Mitch down with a knee to his chest. “And you're gonna learn it tonight.”

The first punch comes down hard on his jaw, and Mitch wishes he were dead. 

~~~~~~

Hours later he's sneaking downstairs to grab some ice from the kitchen freezer. The house is dark and quiet; his mom’s home, and she and her husband are sound asleep. Outside the storm is still raging, cracks of thunder now echoing through the night to complement the pounding rain. 

His face aches where it's bruised, one eye swollen almost completely shut, his lower lip fat and split something awful. He grabs a dish rag and bundles some ice cubes into it; when he brings the coolness to his black and blue cheek he hisses, but as it starts to numb the injured skin, Mitch relaxes ever so slightly. He slumps against the kitchen counter, nursing his wounds, and listens to the wind as it rushes through the trees. A hollow sound, reedy and thin, lost to each loud clap of cannon fire as lightning streaks across the sky. He counts the space between the lightning and thunder: one, two, three, fo--

A new sound joins the symphony. A soft sound, so quiet that Mitch isn't quite sure he actually hears it. It sounds like scratching. He frowns, straining to listen. A mouse, maybe? Scurrying through the walls and dragging sharp little claws against the plaster? Must be, he thinks, until the back door in the kitchen jolts like something’s bumped into it. 

Mitch stares wide-eyed at the closed door, refusing to admit that he'd been startled, but there's no stopping the yell that escapes him when the door quivers again with a bang. The scratching sound follows, insistent and  _ definitely  _ there. Slowly, cautiously, Mitch walks towards the door and unlocks it, hesitating only briefly before pulling it open, fucking  _ ready _ to fight whatever bear or coyote is standing on the back step, but all he sees by the flash of the lightning is--

“Weird dog?”

The animal from earlier is sitting on its little rump right there in front of the door. It stares up at Mitch, who stares dumbly back at it, and then just… Waddles right inside like it owns the fucking place. And Mitch? He actually steps back to let the creature in, closing the door behind it. 

“Uhhh…. so you… followed me home?” He asks, scratching at the back of his neck. The possum-porcupine-dog snuggles around the kitchen floor, stopping near the small table to lick at a few crumbs sitting on the linoleum. “Oh. You must be hungry, huh? What do freaks like you even eat?” He sets his ice down on the counter and pulls open the fridge door, peering at the meager contents inside. “Mom’s supposed to do the shoppin’, but… Ya know, she just… forgets sometimes.” His little buddy comes and sits beside his feet and chitters softly, as if it understands. Mitch smiles, small and sincere, and heaves a sigh. “Guess we’ll just have to fuckin’ wing it, little bro. C’mon, I got some snacks in my room…”

The creature happily lets itself be carried up the stairs and into the safety of Mitch’s small room. The space is a mess of clothes and trash, but when Mitch sets the animal down it seems perfectly content. It rummages through various piles, exploring and squeaking to itself, while Mitch hunts through the half-eaten bags of chips and twinkies for a proper meal. “Aha! Knew I still had some of these left,” he exclaims, holding up a crumpled bag of Doritos. He sits on the floor with his long legs crossed underneath himself and holds a chip out; the animal comes right up to him, mouth slightly open as it sniffs at the offered food. Then, quick as lightning, it snatches the chip from Mitch’s hand and starts crunching away at it. Mitch laughs, even though it makes his face ache, and produces another chip when the animal inhales the first. 

“So what’s the deal, bud?” He asks, watching his visitor fondly. “You got a home or anythin’? A family you gotta go back to?” He’s met with a silent stare, a pink tongue flicking out to lick cheese dust off of fine white whiskers. “Ah, don’t worry about it. Families can fuckin’ suck sometimes,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to his face. “I guess you can hang out here, if you want. Least till the storm’s over.” The critter yawns and stretches its body, the quills on its back laying down soft and harmless on its back as it waddles onto Mitch’s lap. “What, bedtime already? Well, you did have sorta a shitty day, I guess you must be--” He’s interrupted by a yawn of his own, his eyelids drooping heavy and lazy. “--tired. Y’can sleep in the bed with me, but if I get poked by one fuckin’ arrow of yours, you’re stuck on the floor. Got it?”

His new pet trills at him and Mitch knows that the tiny thing sees right through his bullshit. He chuckles. “Lil’ smartass.”

If this thing sticks around, it’s gonna be a bitch hiding it from his mom and stepdad. He’ll have to keep it fed, get it water, somewhere it can shit, hell, maybe even take it on walks. Who can guess with mysterious mammals of unknown species? All that Mitch does know, as he settles himself and his new little bud into bed, is that he’s always wanted a dog.

  
Even if it is a weird-ass one.


End file.
